


Loud, Proud, and Dangerous to Know

by QueanBysshe



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassian genders, Character Study, Garak likes mysteries, I'm sorry he has no name it's bc i'm scared to tell y'all what it is, M/M, That's not very Vulcan of you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-12 19:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16001846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueanBysshe/pseuds/QueanBysshe
Summary: Not only a Vulcan who showed emotions, but a Vulcan who wasopenly talking about Pon Farr;how deliciouslyperverseof him. Garak liked him already; a human being bold was normal, but a Vulcan being bold, that was pure guile—and gall—two things that any Cardassian found attractive, Garak especially. Where was this Vulcan from? Who had raised him? There were so many questions, and Garak felt the eager anticipation of a new project coming on....





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hover over asterisks to see the footnote. Hover over bolded words to see the translation. 
> 
> Certat is pronounced Shair-taht, and his name derives from the Kardasi word for bickering--which, as we know, is flirting. However, he goes by Cer, which has the interesting distinction of being a homophone for 'cher'.... 
> 
> This is a fic that uses the [Kardasi as written by tinsnip and vyc](https://cardassianlanguage.tumblr.com/).

Quark’s had an almost-naked Cardassian boy sitting at a table alone—not a boy as in a chick, but a boy as in, one of the lithe, big-eyed, blue-tailed drakes of the old world. He was dressed in clinging, tissue-thin fabric, drinking a slim glass of blue Kanar 2336, one of the most expensive drinks in the quadrant. His eyes, lined in gold, were on the performer currently on stage, a Vulcan male. 

The Vulcan was playing a Cardassian crystal-harp, and playing it breathtakingly well, very quietly, quiet enough that you barely heard it; but that wasn’t the point of the crystal-harp. A skilful harpist was meant to change the _mood_ of the room, subtly. It was meant to show off the hands, which it was certainly doing for the Vulcan playing it. He even had long pointed nails—a must for playing the crystal-harp. 

He also did not look anything _like_ a Vulcan—his hair was long and red, braided back on the sides to show his pointed ears were pierced, chains connecting them and cuffs between, rings on his hands and draped on his wrists, his face also pierced in several places. Like the Cardassian drake who only had eyes for him, the jewellery was all the finest Klingon bloodgold, and his eyes were lined in gold just like the drake’s, too. 

Their connection could not be more clear, but the second tongue the Cardassian boy was giving off said it was very much that of owner and pet—whatever phrasing you wanted to use to make that legal, that was the dynamic. Which was _very_ traditional of the boy, really; in fact, _too_ traditional for the current regime of Cardassia. 

Vulcans rarely came to Terok Nor*, Garak ignored the invitation the boy was giving him with strategic flicks of the tip of that blue tail; but sat nearby, at a small table with an empty seat across from his.

It was more habit than anything. He and Julian didn’t eat at Quark’s, but for when one or the other of them was showing some cuisine to the other that wasn’t in the replicators. Last time Julian had a turn, it was a delicious animal called lamb, fried and spiced in keeping with the particular Terran sub-culture Julian came from.* Garak hoped Julian wouldn’t wander in and make himself comfortable now; the doctor was sure to comment on the bluish flush suffusing Garak’s hands and **chu’en** , and was artless enough to comment on it. Garak just wanted to enjoy the arousal quietly, and to himself, grateful that there were no other Cardassians here to know, other than he and the boy. Of course, the boy was allowed to desire drakes like Garak—that was expected, in the old world; but for Garak to _desire him back,_ now, that was the unacceptable thing. Garak sipped his Karkady and watched the musician, wondering about him. 

The Vulcan played with such _feeling,_ who was he? What kind of Vulcan had red hair, anyway? Was he a part-human? Garak knew that humans could mate with almost anything, strangely adaptive as their genetics were; but he also knew there was only one half-Vulcan in existence, and it was not a red-haired, gold-draped musician.

The audience, the rapt one, was mostly human; they looked Julian’s age, if Garak were to hazard a guess, and they were all _vibrating_ with barely-contained delight that was just waiting to find outlet. When the set ended, there was _screaming,_ a complete _explosion_ of noise, and the Vulcan actually _smirked,_ looking over the audience. Someone screamed an incoherent word that Garak couldn’t make heads or tails of.

‘I am on _holiday,_ ’ he said into the microphone, with the tone of an amused aunt, pleasure curling every syllable, drinking in the attention, the control. He let them protest and scream and, Garak observed with a kind of stunned interest, _completely lose their minds._ Some of them were _crying._ He had _heard_ about how incredibly loud and emotional humans were, but he’d thought it was exaggerated. 

It was not.

‘I am supposed to be _taking a break,_ ’ he drawled on in that low, silky, coy little growl.

The drake got up, then, and his height unfolded, mostly spine and a neck that rivalled Dukat’s for length and beauty. Quietly, he crossed the room, only getting noticed when the performer watched him. The crowd died down, but not quietly. No, this silence was just as loud with anticipation.

 _‘Please,_ ’ was all the boy said, in Old Kardasi, the kind that had separate declension depending on gender, sexual worth, and fertility phase. It _ached_ , all submission and desire and pleading— _pleading!_ How long since Garak had heard _pleading_ in his own tongue? It was so sexual that Garak inhaled sharply—silently, but still, it had been involuntary shock.

This, too, was part of the power this Vulcan flexed over the room. He made show of thinking, rolling his eyes up, then over to the bar. ‘We-ell...’ he said, ‘I don’t know what my _manager_ would think….’

There was a strange Ferengi at the bar—not that it was out of the ordinary, lots of Ferengi came through here—but he actually looked up, leaning back against the bar and saying, in a voice accented with something _Terran,_ ‘They’re your songs, babe. You’re getting a flat rate for the performance, no matter how long it goes.’

‘Mmm,’ the Vulcan purred, grinning a sharp grin that made you worry, made you remember how Vulcans used to be warriors. ‘We-ell,’ he looked back at the drake, his voice going all velvet and smoke. ‘I am ever a _willing slave_ to the demands of my lovely fans….’

The drake went to sit back down, graceful and gorgeous and softly jingling, as the Vulcan put away the crystal-harp in its case, before taking out another instrument, from a different case. It was Terran, from how the humans immediately recognised it with more screaming (did they scream at everything? Was that simply the human noise for high emotions of _any_ kind? The subtlety must be beyond his skill, right now; well, here was an embarrassing question he could ask _Julian_ later, there were so _few_ of those…).

~*~*~*~

The song that he picked wasn’t one of the party songs—those required more stage and more space than he had here. He fingered the notes on the guitar, picked with his long and reinforced nails, and sang:

 _We’ll go down to Malibu, precious_  
_Worship the sun in paradise_  
_You can hold back my hair while I get sand on my knees_

 _And when it comes time_  
_You can stay; stay_  
_When it comes time and_

 _We’ll go up to Santa Cruz, precious_  
_Worship the sea in paradise_  
_I can just see you there, see your curls in the breeze_

 _And when it comes time_  
_You can stay; stay_  
_When it comes time and_

 _We’ll go to Syracuse, precious_  
_Worship the sun in paradise…_

The song had caused a satisfyingly huge backlash on Vulcan, every single one knowing exactly what ‘time’ the song talked about, and a diplomatic incident had made the song banned on pan-galactic music publishers due to culturally offensive content. Terra, however, did not have censorship; Terran album sales had skyrocketed, and the single had single-handedly set him up for life.* And, while the song had come from an honest place, he had written and recorded it knowing full well what would happen.

It was his most popular song.

Certat was unashamedly trilling, low and nearly subsonic, his jewellery shimmering and jingling with the vibrations from his body, tail high and chu’en blue as courting-stones. It lent a beautiful subtext, and depth where a bassline usually was, but currently wasn’t. 

Terra had many instruments, just like any other culture; but iconic, perhaps _required_ in order to succeed as a star, was the guitar. It was an ancient instrument, easy to master technically, but that wasn’t the point. The point was the simplicity of it, the raw and almost bestial power of the chords, the way it interacted in its simplicity as an ingredient that, when spiced with feedback and synthesisers, became something that could whip humans into a frenzy of adoration, rage, triumph, tears, dance, or raw _desire._ Its simplicity was the very thing that made it so enduringly powerful.

And it was surprising how much the guitar could do that to _other_ races, races that had never been much moved by music like this. Certat was one of them; he’d met the Vulcan that was to become his lover in a much worse state, having run off in the confusion of the loss of Bajor and having got stuck in a spaceport serving drinks. That was five days ago, when he’d followed the strange music in the spaceport to find the player, who had found _him_ in turn. Cardassian was someone new, and Certat had learned that _new_ was very good.

Certat reflected on how lovely it was, to be petted and pampered*, to only concern himself with pleasure and beauty, to only answer to his lover’s authority.* And now, someone to show off to, another Cardassian, to show how far Certat had ‘fallen’! Certat basked in the curiosity mixed with shock and scandal and unwilling pleasure and admiration and oh, oh was that a bit of _desire_ in the curl of that tail?

Oh _my_.

Not only a Vulcan who showed emotions, but a Vulcan who was _openly talking about Pon Farr,_ how deliciously _perverse_ of him. Garak liked him already; a human being bold was normal, but a _Vulcan_ being bold, that was pure guile—and gall—two things that any Cardassian found attractive, Garak especially. Where was this Vulcan from? Who had raised him? There were so many questions, and Garak felt the eager anticipation of a new project coming on.... 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over asterisks to see footnotes; hover over bold text for a translation.

Garak found himself tapping one of his far-flung sources for information on the red-haired Vulcan that same night, and the answer he got back was intriguing. His contact, another exile,* laughed when he described the Vulcan.

'You're describing Forte,' she said, lighting one of the things Garak paid her with—rokassa leaves, something she had taken to smoking in the human fashion.* She took a long inhale and exhale, pupils dilating with the rokassa's chief ingredient. 'He's got a gavr-drake?'* She flicked her tail and huffed a very human noise. 'Figures. That's Forte all over; collects pretty sex toys wherever he roams. Cardassia's about to get a rude first introduction to Terra.' 

'I was under the distinct impression Terra already had an introduction.'

'To our military. They aren't generally interested in military, down here, Garak dear.' She tapped ash from the 'cigarette'. 'I want nine kilos for this.'

'My, we _are_ getting addicted. Three.'

'Screw you,' she said, good-naturedly coiling her tail; by now, Garak knew it from human lips often enough. Odd, that Medark had gone native even that much. 'You have no idea what I went through to know this information. Eight.' 

'I was given to believe you had the perfect cover, and no one suspected you were even _Cardassian,_ my dear. Four.'

'All ease has a price,' she quoted the old adage, unamusement in every line of her second tongue. 'Seven kilos, and _fresh_ this time, I can tell when you're offloading a Ferengi's expired product on me.'

'I am a simple tailor, Medark, I can afford only so much. Five.'

'Hn, well if _Forte's_ on the station, you'll get a nice fat commission soon enough. Six, and it's a bargain for what I'm giving you.'

'Six, then.'

'Fresh,' she insisted in a hiss, made somehow more intimidating with the smoke curling from her lips, the way she stubbed out the bright smouldering ember at the tip of the finished cigarette as she said it. What an expressive way of smoking, and _humans_ had thought of it, really? Garak made mental note to, perhaps, study a little more about human culture pre-Starfleet. Perhaps they'd been more complex, once; but, perhaps it was Medark herself. 

'Six fresh kilos of rokassa,' Garak conceded, with both tongues. 

-

_TIME magazine’s person of the year for 2370 is the Vulcan pop superstar, Forte. When he isn’t songwriting or touring, Forte is usually on one of Terra's sparkling beaches, soaking up the sun…._

_Forte joined VOGUE for an exclusive, debuting his fashion collection, designed in collaboration with Salyx Pinkett-Smith…._

_Forte is rumoured to be in talks with Jassidy Miranda and Nizzy Morehead, working on a Broadway musical…._

_On the red carpet at the 440th Academy Awards was Forte, in a stunning suit of acid green shot black silk studded with hundreds of citrines…._

The articles were lavishly illustrated with images that showed the Vulcan in the high fashion of Terra from the past thirty years, including several pieces identified by captions as vintage in style, and an article from _The Advocate_ where he was wearing lingerie and very high heels and very little else. 

He wasn’t just a musician, he was an _icon._ Icons were more than celebrity, they had become household names, personas larger than life, living myths. 

That much power given to one person was, frankly, terrifying—especially, especially given to someone as lowly as _an entertainer._

The shop chime went off, and Garak locked his PADD, putting on his professional smile and going to the front of the shop. 

The vulcan was there, with his drake. He didn’t look bored, he looked intense. Garak recalled a line from one of the magazine articles.

_He looks at me over the rim of his cocktail glass, and I feel not like a bug under a microscope, but as though **I’m** the most interesting person in the room, not him…._

‘Mr Garak,’ Forte began, ‘my lover needs.’ He glanced aside at the boy. ‘Come see me when you’re done, Cer.’ And he turned to leave, with no further instructions. Garak could see it had startled the boy as well. 

‘I… Forte, wait.’

‘You know what you need, precious dragon,’ Forte said, with a careless flick of his wrist, and was gone to the Promenade. 

The boy’s second tongue said he was embarrassed and anxious, but the blueing on his body said he was also aroused. Garak waited. This boy was rather young—from the later years of the Occupation, when they’d started recruiting and promoting younger and younger—and Garak wondered what he’d been, what he’d done. 

‘I’m Certat,’ the boy said finally. 

‘Surely not always.’

Ah, a Cardassian sharpness, there it was; Garak was worried he’d been completely de-spined. ‘I am Certat,’ he said, a little more firmly. Military man, not a scientist; only the military had that naked bluster. ‘What I was before does not concern you.’

‘A glin at least, from that attitude.’

‘And you are surely Obsidian Order, but we are both exiles now, are we not?’ Certat said, ‘Must we do this dance?’

‘I thought you would be pleased to dance. Drakes like you usually are.’

Intrigue, curiosity. ‘And have you met many of them?’ 

‘What is it that you need, Certat?’ Garak said, with a bland smile that said nothing at all. 

‘Leather,’ came the answer, soft and nervous. But something was hidden, something Garak would find out, later. 

‘Ah,’ said Garak, ‘a very _precise_ fit, come into the back, we shall have to take _intricate_ measurements….’


End file.
